


In The Morning Cold

by dornessiti



Series: Fall Tumblr GoT Prompts [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Braids, Cheesy, First Kiss, I JUST LOVE MY SOFT BOYS OKAY, M/M, Short, Tumblr Prompt, so soft, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-05 07:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornessiti/pseuds/dornessiti
Summary: Jon Snow wants braids.





	In The Morning Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is also a part of my short tumblr prompt series i'll be doing this fall/winter. you can find me at oathoftheheart , i hope you enjoy!

Surprisingly gentle hands play with the curls at the base of his neck for just a moment before gathering it up with the rest. It feels nice- strange- but nice, to close his eyes and forget about the fear lurking behind every corner of Winterfell.

Jon had been inspecting the training yards with Davos when a trio of Free Folk had loudly made their way passed, their faces showing nothing but excitement for the battle to come. The sight was common enough, their men and women had fit in alongside the Northerners far better than he dared hope, but something about the tallest of the three men had caught his eye.

Braids.

A dozen or more thick braids woven out of straw-coloured hair. 

It’s a common sight this far North to see intricate designs amongst the women, but few- if any- men see need for it. 

Jon can remember the first time he saw a little Sansa teetering on her toddler legs, reaching for him with her chubby fists until he finally tried his best to pick her up (he could only manage it for a moment, still just a boy himself). Her hair had finally grown long enough for Catelyn to braid, and she wanted to show the whole Keep how pretty it looked. It came undone in record time with how often she reached back to touch it, so eager to feel the pattern beneath her hands, but it didn’t matter. Catelyn would patiently redo them each time. 

It was the only time Lady Stark ever seemed to tolerate his presence. While she busied herself with fixing Sansa’s hair, Jon would sit as quiet as a mouse on the stone floor across from her chair, his eyes trying to track her quick, practiced movements. She scowled whenever he followed after them to see it done, but she never once shooed him away. 

And now his head is tilted back by a pair of strong hands, a bone-deep calm settling beneath his skin as he tries to keep still while sitting on the edge of a wooden stool. A blissfully warm fire crackles away beside him, chasing away the chill from his father’s old chambers- though the wall of heat from the man sitting behind him helps as well. 

“ ‘Always wanted to ask if I could.” Tormund’s low, rough voice moves through the room like a current, guiding Jon along just the same as the fingers that now work at guiding his locks into what feels like hundreds of twists and turns. “After all, a pretty crow needs pretty feathers.”

Jon blushes from head-to-toe and keeps his eyes firmly shut. “Probably would’ve said no, too afraid you’d put a blade to my throat instead.” 

They both know it’s a lie, but the other man simply laughs the same earth-rattling laugh as always. The sound Jon swears he can taste on his tongue; warm and rich and inviting. It reverberates in his chest and takes root, slowly taking up more and more space until there’s no room for anything else. 

“Aye, I don’t have a blade, but my hands have killed just as many men.” Tormund says, pausing to playfully brush the pads of his fingers against the side of Jon’s throat. 

An embarrassingly sweet sigh whispers passed his lips without permission and the other man stills at the sound of it. 

_Gods, strike me down._

Jon is debating between apologizing profusely or simply leaving as quickly as possible when the touch is there again, only soft and purposeful, Tormund’s large hand gently sliding up to trace his jaw. It’s unbearably intimate, stealing the very breath from his lungs with every second that passes. His eyes still closed, Jon nearly jerks away when he feels Tormund duck down to whisper against the crook of his neck, “...I’ve nearly finished them all.” 

“How do they look?” He asks shakily. 

“Beautiful.” Tormund answers without hesitation, a smile creeping its way into his voice. 

Jon laughs then, some of the tension leaving his body as he does, but Tormund doesn’t join in his amusement. Instead, he slips away and rises from his chair, taking his warmth with him as he goes. 

At first he assumes the wildling means to leave and he fights back the urge to call after him, but the sound of the door opening never comes. Finally, _finally,_ Jon opens his eyes. 

Tormund kneels before him, patiently waiting until their eyes meet before slowly resting a hand on either side of his face, giving him plenty of time to pull away as he does. But Jon refuses to move, refuses to breathe in the time it takes for Tormund to brush his thumbs against his cheekbones, his temples, his lips, until he’s sliding both hands back into Jon’s now skillfully braided hair, threading his fingers through curls and plaits alike. 

Time slows down after that. 

He’s come to learn that life is harder the second time you do it. When you make mistakes, they weigh more than they did before. Your soul becomes a weak thing not meant to carry the burden of choosing who lives and who dies; not once you’ve tasted both. And Jon’s soul was close to finished after losing countless men under his command. It’s easy to want to go back to that simple, dark place from before, where there are no responsibilities, only a quiet blanket of nothingness waiting for his return. 

Now a greater want flickers to life deep in his belly. Tormund takes two handfuls of his hair and guides him forward into a kiss that feels as light as a fresh morning snow. Just the barest brush of lips on his, yet it’s enough to help him forget the dark, even if just for a moment. 

And it’s more than enough. 

The slow drag of Tormund’s lips on his pulls him away from those dark thoughts. Jon chooses to focus on the almost sweet taste of him, the sparks that shoot down his spine whenever the wildling groans into the space between them, how he would stay in this room forever if he could, should the Gods decide to be merciful. 

But they never are, and time must start again. 

So with one last pause to memorize this- memorize how perfectly they fit together, how whole and alive he finally feels- Jon reluctantly pulls away, though he sways like a green boy as he does.

Tormund looks nearly as drunk as he feels, those blue eyes as bright and warm as the fire still roaring beside them. “...Beautiful.” He insists, his hands still running through Jon’s braids. They’re half-undone by this point, with his remaining curls already fighting to escape the scraps of fabric pinning them down, but neither or them care too terribly much. 

Besides, Tormund will still be here to redo them each time.


End file.
